


Reconciliation

by LaBohme



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Dark Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nogitsune Stiles, Nogitsune Trauma, Post-Nogitsune, Psychosis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-13 09:21:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3376241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaBohme/pseuds/LaBohme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes all it takes is a good bubble bath to wash the sins away...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Baptism

He was sat on his bed, staring at his fingernails. Derek had cut them the day after he'd brought him home. The boy's tormentor was quiet for now; the Nogitsune.

Gone, said the Sheriff and Isaac and Scott and Lydia.

Sleeping, said Stiles.

Waiting. Torturing him as per usual. Making him sit anxiously in his room, staring at the eight red crescents that just wouldn't go away, no matter how hard he scrubbed, how long he picked at them. It was his own blood, at least, to match the eight red crescents scabbing over in his palms. But that didn't ease the paranoia. Stiles would see a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye.

A fly, said Scott. Harmless.

A fly, said Stiles. He shuddered.

Lithe fingers trembled. They hadn't stopped trembling in weeks. Stiles was used to it now, though. Just like he was used to how thin he'd gotten; the way his hipbones and ribs and clavicle jutted violently out. Just like he was used to the dreams. The nightmares. Those horrific visions that fueled his incredible lack of sleep.

But he was fine, right?

Seconds later the boy heard a deafening squeal erupt from the other side of the room. He jerked, springing under the covers in surprise before realizing it was only the door. The door was... open. A bandage-wrapped figure, warped and twisted, stood quietly, back-lit by the hallway light. Stiles, immediately petrified and trembling, blinked. The hell-bringer was now a smooth silhouette, throwing a long, thick shadow across the wooden floor.

Stiles squinted at the sudden abundance of light, hands and covers reaching up protectively, shielding all but those bestial eyes. He wasn't accustomed to so much light yet. The fox had also managed to turn the dour teenager into a creature of the dark. 

"Hi." A rough voice started. It was lower than the Sheriff's and Scott's soft tones that Stiles was so used to. It was a man, and a painfully familiar one, at that. 

The boy shrunk back even further, wedging himself against the wall, using the thick mess of sheets as a shield.

The man paused, his face still heavily shadowed by the hallway light. "So... can I come in?"

The boy swallowed audibly, not moving a muscle, his eyes still wide and staring at the form from his past. Memories of the man were not very distant, but were far enough to feel bitterly nostalgic. A day felt like a month to Stiles.

Derek sighed and shut the door behind himself. The only remaining light source was the rays of the rosy sunset making their way through the window. They cast a strange glow on the boy cowering in front of him. His eyes reflected the pink and gold lighting the room, making them shine like fire. Derek had always liked Stiles' eyes. They were so expressive. This, in this case, was not necessarily a good thing because they held so much pain and fright he felt the overwhelming need to turn away.

A silent minute passed.

Stiles was barely recognizable, he thought, once he lowered the blankets enough to see more than those tortured eyes. He was of a sickly pallor with dull hair hanging limply over his forehead and wet eyes and cracked lips and hollow, grey cheeks. He looked like an old homeless man and the thought forced Derek to swallow a fat lump in his throat. Seventeen year-olds should not look like old homeless men.

"Hi, Stiles..." Derek started, fighting to keep his tone casual. Bored, like usual. But it didn't work. There was nothing 'usual' about this.

Stiles sighed. "Why are you here?" he hummed lowly, his voice cracking and weak like the rest of him. 

"I'm here to... you know, talk. I think you need some company." Derek said tentatively, taking cautious, calculated steps towards the bed.

He felt to the man like a wild animal, something more feral than a wolf, and all he could think about was making sure he didn't scare him off. And those eyes... Goddamn, those eyes...

The boy shifted back a little' dropped his hands that clutched those covers so tightly in little balled-up fists like a newborn. He watched the man's smooth movements with a hard, instinctual stare. Stiles didn't know what to say. What was he supposed to talk about? Surely not his months-long possession? Or the wandering in middle of the night, the culling, the death? Or that one moment he'd sworn they'd shared? The second he'd sworn Derek had felt something for him - something more than just companionship or friendship... God, that felt like eternity ago. But something inside him - something dusty and underused - fluttered and thudded haphazardly like a dying butterfly. He was happy to see the man, beneath it all. The man was a comfort, a tie to reality, that he hadn't had the pleasure of seeing or touching in a long, long time. 

He was an intoxicating mix of immaculate and mature that attracted him in inexplicable ways. Maybe it was because he reminded him of everything he wasn't - or what he felt he wasn't. Stiles didn't feel immaculate. He had too much blood on his hands, carried too much pain and suffering that was obviously his fault. And he definitely didn't feel mature. On the inside, Stiles was a small child, lost and panicked, without parent or guide. He was absolutely helpless. He felt like the five-year old who'd wandered away from Mommy at the grocery store, frozen in place in the middle of the soup aisle, everything so big and overwhelming and everyone rushing by so, so fast. It was all too much. He didn't know where to turn, where to go, what to do. He was destitute. And he was alone. Except, now, for him. Derek. The wolf to keep the fox at bay.

"I'd like some company," Stiles mumbled, avoiding his deep eyes. He was suddenly embarrassed by his appearance. He was dirty and unwashed and skinny and out of the blue, he wanted to be healthy and fit again. For him. For Derek. But he wasn't.

He swallowed thickly and stared again at his blood-stained fingernails. Abruptly, he wanted them off. He wanted his gruesome fingernails gone and his limp, dirty hair gone and he wanted the earth in the creases of his palms gone and the sharp outline of his bones gone. The boy wanted himself gone because he hated himself for what he'd done and what he'd surely do if the beast got to him again. He hated the way his friends had sacrificed so much to save him and he hated how Allison had died...

Stiles suddenly stood up, flipping his blankets violently off. Derek stepped back, surprised. He stared intensely at the man and the man found his eyes glued to the boy's until he turned and stormed out the door, wobbly and unsure on underutilized feet.

Derek strode forward, catching him by the shirt and he whipped around.

"What?" he shouted, hands twitching and tensing reflexively at his sides.

"Stiles, stop. You're going to hurt yourself." Derek soothed.

"No," the boy chided, head tilting to one side. "I'm going to hurt someone else. That's what happens with me around. That's just what I do." He cried, a wild insanity filling those whiskey-coloured eyes.

"Calm down, Stiles. It's okay. You're okay and I'm okay... we're all fine, see? Now just... come back to-"

The deranged boy shook his head and ripped his arm out of the man's grasp as he forced his way towards the stairs.

"Stiles, stop!" Derek yelled, lurching again for the sweat-soaked t-shirt.

"Derek," Stiles grunted, twisting around to shove him out of the way. "Leave me alo-"

Stiles had stepped too far. His foot missed the top step and two bodies went crashing down the stairs, grunting and groaning and yelping until they hit the last step in a crumpled heap, legs and arms and bodies tangled, one indiscernible from the other.

Derek, blinking heavily and clutching his head, glanced up to see a panic-stricken Sheriff rushing towards the pair, but he shook his head quickly, laying a protective hand on Stiles' bony shoulder. He was alright, he was telling the Sheriff. He would take care of him, he assured. The Sheriff eyed them cautiously but moved slowly back to the living room, surely listening to every word and moan and groan that was to be uttered.

The man rubbed the boy's back soothingly until he started shaking. Sobbing, he came to realize, crying bitterly into the man's stomach, hands and arms wrapped defensively around his own head, dirt-stained fingers twisted into and tugging at his own hair.

"Hey," Derek cooed. He didn't even know he could coo. "Stiles, I'm fine. You're fine. Everyone' okay. Everything's okay." he hummed lowly.

"It's not." He choked through a heavy breath.

"It is." Derek insisted.

The broken boy huffed a breath, too tired to argue. "I hate myself, Derek." he groaned. "I hate what I've done and what I'll do and I hate how ruined I am." Suddenly his eyes darted up to meet the man's and he had to clench his teeth hard. "I don't know... am I even human anymore?"

"Stiles, you're human..." Derek assured forcefully. But he was at a loss for words. Derek wasn't very good with words at the best of times, but this... He'd been through some rough times, but he'd never seen someone so ruined as Stiles. Happy, bouncy, annoying Stiles. What had Stiles done to deserve such a punishment as this? No. No one deserves a punishment such as this. "All those things..." It was all Derek could manage. His emotions swelled and crested like the waves and his voice broke. "... Not your fault." Derek shut his eyes and hung his head. Stiles deserved so much more than this. Than what he could offer.

Stiles stared at him full-on. He sighed. He didn't believe the man. But he didn't argue, either. 

Derek averted his eyes. "Come on, Stiles. Let's get you cleaned up." he mumbled to the floor.

Slowly, and not without struggle, the two made it up the stairs and Derek maneuvered a weak and wavering Stiles towards the bathroom. 

He shut the door and cranked the bath tap until steaming water was gushing from the faucet. Stiles stared at him and he stared at the boy and Stiles had never felt so naked before in his life, despite his abundance of warm, cozy layers. Derek was gnawing on his lip, the pink swell darkening from the pressure. His gaze was worried and firm and hot. Judging, pale eyes dragged over his skeletal figure, over sharp collarbones and swollen-looking elbows and wrists and the way his clothes hung so loosely over his frame. The boy felt ashamed and embarrassed by how bad it'd gotten. Unfortunately, though, the pull of food had lost its power over him when all he saw, day and night, were garish nightmares. 

Derek cleared his throat and stuck a finger in the water, to test it before he rummaged through the cupboards. From who-knows-where, he found some bubble bath and dumped the green goop in. Stiles almost smiled. He'd never pegged Derek as one for bubbles.

"Uh..." the man hesitated, turning to Stiles. "You can, you know... get in. I won't look. Promise." He pressed a hand to his chest. "I'm going to... go get you food." Derek's voice was slow but nervous and Stiles somehow found it really endearing in a way that made his heart ache. Derek latched on to the idea like a lifebuoy. "Yeah, I'll go get you food. Get in."

He strode out the door, pulling it shut behind him and flicking on the heater for good measure. The heater rattled to life as he left and Stiles was left staring at the door, not a word leaving his lips. Stiles stared accusingly at the bubble bath, chewing his lip until he tasted the familiar metallic tang of blood. With a heavy sigh and one last forlorn look towards the door, Stiles stripped quickly and hopped into the water. He did not want to face the wrath of Derek. He was aware of Derek's capabilities, and he was sure that Derek would strip him himself and force him into the bath. The thought made Stiles' ears hot. He didn't think about it. He thought, instead, about temperature. The water, for example. It was too hot. Way too hot. The water made his skin shine red and every hair follicle stand at attention, but he did nothing about it. Stiles was practiced in pain. He sat, foaming bubbles building a wall of touchable clouds around him, until the heat no longer burned and he was comfortably numb and he could sink down, almost completely covered with bubbles and liquid steam.

Too soon, Derek returned with a plate of scrambled eggs and toast and a massive bowl of Lucky Charms and some Poptarts and a sippy cup of orange juice.

He cracked the littlest bit of a smile for both the large feast and Derek's cautious face. Stiles had never seen Derek's face like that before - so open and quiet and thoughtful. He was sure that not many people had. He was trying so hard and the sentiment made the boy's heart both ache and melt.

"Thanks, Derek." Stiles croaked, tone hushed, and Derek suddenly smiled at him with his white teeth and Stiles noticed that the two in front were a bit bigger and that he got these lines on either side of his nose and he thought it was incredibly beautiful. Derek crouched beside the tub and laid the smorgasbord across the sink.

"The Sheriff helped." he confessed, face returning to its usual stern position.

Stiles had guessed this. His father knew Lucky Charms were his favourite. He stared at the food. He really wasn't very hungry, but with a last glance at Derek's stern and commanding, yet strangely gentle expression, Stiles, for the first time in a very long time, began to stuff his face.

When he was on his second piece of toast after finished the soggy cereal, the observer moved. Paranoia easily overtook Stiles. Without thought, he jerked away from the rough, callused hand, the half-eaten toast landing in a thick pile of bubbles. Derek's hand pulled away almost as fast as Stiles had.

"Sorry." He amended quickly.

The boy gulped, shook his head, staring gravely at the sinking toast. "I'm sorry." he corrected.

Seconds passed until Derek held his hand out again, this time tentatively and ever-so-slowly. His gaze was steady and animalistic and Stiles felt like one of his trainees. Again, in his eyes, Stiles was a beast in need of taming. Stiles, eyes lowered, head hung in shame, glanced up at the hand from the tops of his eyes and finished the gesture apologetically, hand pressing against hair with a soft brushing sound. He sighed, leaning into the anchoring palm, eyes closing tiredly. He was ruined, he knew. Deranged. He swallowed a thick lump building in his throat. Derek pulled his fingers soothingly through the untended bristles until Stiles' shoulders dropped and he let his head fall back, eyes shut in euphoria.

It had been so long since someone had run their fingers through his hair, since someone had touched him like this. Stiles was lost in it.

Slowly, as to not startle the boy-turned-beast, the man cupped water and bubbles in a hand and lifted it gently to the boy's scalp. The water dribbled off his hair and down his back, making him shiver and release the ghost of a grin in long-lost delight. Derek used two hands now, massaging the water and bubbles into his hair as he tipped his head back and reveled in the tickling water and tickling fingers. Unhurriedly, the consoling hands made their way lower, softly but firmly scrubbing and massaging the tender skin of Stiles' neck and clavicle and shoulders, both sin and grime being therapeutically washed away. Stiles was barely aware, he was absolutely blissed out, head cocked to one side, eyes closed, approving hums making their way through softened, parted lips. 

Derek, strangely enough, found almost as much pleasure in massaging Stiles' tired and worn muscles as he found in receiving it. It had been ages, it seemed, after Erica and Boyd and Scott had left, that Derek had had someone to tend to other than himself. He was a wolf, after all; a very social creature. And that big house in the woods can get pretty lonely. Now, suddenly, he had Stiles. Derek felt a protective and instinctual swell in his chest. It was a familiar feeling. He knew it well. He'd known it all along, really. Stiles was a part of his pack. They were family. He laved the boy's warm back with the palm of his hand, pressing rough fingers into muscle and bone, letting those curious digits explore as they wished. Cupping more water and bubbles, he brought the froth to Stiles' neck. It cascaded down in body in smooth rivulets and, pulling his hands along the slippery paths left, he shut his eyes and let his senses run wild. He could feel the smooth, hot skin sliding under his sensitive fingertips and the long, hot breaths mingling in the little space between them. He could smell the flowery bubbles and the salty sheen of sweat developing on their upper lips and the arousal emanating off both of them. He could hear the water pleasantly splashing and Stiles' soft hums of approval and gratitude. And he could almost taste those sighing lips against his own.

It was when Derek's hands had nowhere left to go, when they reached the spot where the boy's hollowed stomach and protruding ribs disappeared into the effervescent froth, that Stiles came back to himself. His eyes snapped open and, stunned as he was, his nose was an inch from Derek's. Derek's eyes were half-closed, his pupils blown and his cheeks flushed, the pleasure of his hot, greedy hands on hot, supple skin absolutely intoxicating. Eyes met eyes and Derek cracked a half-grin. He was a wolf; a creature of instinct and want and need. And right then, the object of his desires was sitting right in front of him, too tempting to be ignored.

"Hi, Stiles." he murmured.

Stiles swiped his tongue nervously over his lips, and Derek's eyes traced its every move. But the way the man was looking at him was... not pitying. Not all condolences and sympathy. He was looking at him like he was whole and sane and clean and it was overwhelming. His heart threatened to beat right out of his chest.

Against all odds, Derek had managed to make Stiles feel wanted again. Like he was worth something.

"Thanks, Derek." he mumbled, unexplained, lost in those bestial eyes, unknowingly leaning closer and closer every second.

There was that sexy little half-grin again. "Anytime." he breathed against the boy's lips.

The man's hot, soapy hands were suddenly on his bony shoulders, splayed across his skeletal back.

The man's lips were suddenly on his.

It didn't matter that the boy's mind was ruined or that Derek hated life almost as much as Stiles did. It didn't matter that they were both messes and that Stiles was all wet and soapy and splashing water all over Derek's clothes. They were only a nuisance, anyway. It didn't matter that the Sheriff was cringing downstairs at every needy groan and hiss as eager lips found a sweet spot.

All that mattered was that Stiles started to hate himself a little less and they both started to find a new reason to live.


	2. Confirmation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place a few months after the first.

"Mommy! Mommy!" he cried, running towards the woman.

She was kneeling, hands tending the weeds and the flowers, soft as satin. Gentle as a bird. Smooth as silk.

The boy stopped, cocked his head. "Mommy?"

The woman froze. She turned slowly, eyes straining to look over her shoulder. Lithe hands held a weed halfway out of the dirt.

"Stiles," She finally said in a loose, breathy way.

The boy took a step back.

The woman turned around to face him, smiling fondly. "Yes. Stiles."

He sighed and ran towards her. She remembered him. This was a rare 'good' day.

"Mom. I missed you." He assured her.

His mother grinned, brushing his hair lovingly away from his forehead. "Yes. I've been away, haven't I?" Another dreamy look overtook her unlined face.

He nodded and grimaced. She hadn't been away. Not physically. Mentally, though, she was waning. Her sanity was leaving her. And so she was leaving him.

"Have you met my friend?" she asked , offering him a hand.

The boy took it, shaking his head. They walked together through the open garden towards thick trees at the back. A pale figure flashed against the leaves, there and gone in an instant. He faltered, but with an encouraging look from his mother, trudged on through the tall grass. Moments later they stopped, the woman peering intently at the treeline.

"You'll like my friend. He knows such nice songs. He has such nice words."

The boy gulped, free hand twitching with nerves. He shouldn't have gone with her. He should have asked her a few questions first - seen if she was truly awake in her own head. He knew from experience how often she wasn't and though he hated to hear it his father warned him often enough against going places with her when she got like this.

"There!" She cried excitedly, pointing at nothing. Another white figure flashed. "Oh, hear that? Aren't his songs just beautiful?"

"Mom, I think... I think we should go back." He tried to sound mature. He tried to sound in control.

But the woman started to sing along to a song he didn't hear, staring adoringly at a man he didn't see.

"Are you so tired of the things you fear?  
And so tired of the things you 'hear'?  
You've never seen the end so clear,  
You've never seen the end so near  
Are you so tired of telling lies?  
Are you so tired of sightless eyes?  
You're no more the one who tries.  
Now you're just the one who dies.  
You're so mad.  
You're so mean.  
And the pain, as always, remains unseen."

She stopped, eyes closed, lips twisted in a loose grin. With a sigh and a pointed look towards the invisible man, she started up again, chanting in a deep rhythm.

"Oh, Madness is a lonely child,  
from whom the many run away.  
The odd thing is, when we are tired,  
it is the one with whom we play."

The boy, breathing ragged and rushed, tried to tug his hand out of this mother's. This was wrong. This was dangerous. She wasn't right in the head. He was scared. He pulled away again, a broken scream ripping out of his empty lungs. But his mother only turned to him, still smiling, still chanting. She knelt, catching his small white jaw in tight fingers. And with a final kiss to his forehead she broke his hand and died.

oOo

Stiles sat up, gasping for breath that refused to be found. His chest was heaving as visions of his mother's dead eyes clung to him. The dream faded as he found his breath, but this was not a new dream. He knew how it ended every single time.

Running his mother's lithe hands through sweaty hair, he flexed his fingers. Not broken. Not clutching the hand of a dead woman.

A low, pained note escaped his sore throat. Those hands fell to his lap, his head hung low, so heavy, full to bursting with painful memories of his mother and the Nogitsune and pain and death and blood. His breathing slowed. He shut his eyes.

A callused hand pressed softly against his back, tracing his spine which, though much less prominent, was still too visible to be healthy. Gentle fingers followed each vertebrae to the dimples framing his tailbone. They pulled back up to catch his jaw.

Stiles flinched, for a moment feeling his mother's vice-like fingers rather than Derek's tender ones. Derek didn't pull away. Stiles was thankful.

"Bad dream?" he hummed, voice low and rough with sleep.

Stiles hunkered down to bury his head in the crook of Derek's neck. Arms wrapped tightly around his body, rubbing trembling skin until he let out a labored breath into Derek's skin and let his body mold into the man's.

Stiles opened his eyes, staring up at his neck and his cheek and across his collarbone and chest. His skin was white and grey and blue in the dark and so many other impossible colours in between. His skin was beautiful and firm and soft so he pressed wet lips to his neck. Derek shivered under him. Derek collected him into his arms until they were pressed together so snugly they were indiscernible from one another. They blended together in soft, sleepy shades until they were one being, both breath and heartbeats synchronized.

"You didn't sleep." He whispered to the boy's hair.

"We still have time."

Derek grinned as Stiles strained upwards for a look at the clock. It was three in the morning.

"I can't sleep." He finally confessed, voice cracking and coarse.

Derek nodded. Stiles swallowed, and inexplicable feeling pushing from his chest. This was why he loved Derek more than he ever could have imagined. He didn't ask about the dream. Stiles didn't want to talk about the dream. Derek didn't force him or push. He was patient without fault and he loved him for him. They loved each other wholly in ways rarely seen throughout the world.

"So let's not." Derek suggested, sitting up and untangling himself from the boy.

They both grinned, shivering. They were naked and cold.

Picking some clothes unceremoniously off the ground and tugging them on, Derek stood up and stared at Stiles.

The boy was spread out in such beautiful ways. He looked infinitely better than he had. His bones and stomach were lined with thick muscle. He was rosy from the man's penetrating gaze and his skin was golden. His hair was thick and dark and his face glowed with health. Though mentally he was far from okay, physically he was near perfection. A couple more pounds and he'd be back to the way he was pre-possession. Derek bit his lip, exhaling strongly through his nose. Stiles was stretched out across the messy bed, sheets covering his hips to his thighs, arms behind his head. His gaze was mischievous and somewhat shy as he knowingly pulled his muscles taught, stretching out enticingly in front of the wolf. His head tipped back, exposing the thin white skin of his neck, the sheet slipping ever so slightly, just barely covering what Derek was most interested in at the moment.

"Stiles," Derek warned, voice husky and carnal.

He grinned at the man. "Where are you going?" his eyes told him he knew he had him hooked. Derek wasn't going anywhere. Not with Stiles lying so temptingly across his bed.

"I was going to go to the beach." The man's eyes were still travelling the hills and valleys of the boy's body, his pupils blown and his face dark with lust and desire.

Stiles licked his lips, taking in Derek's bedhead and his shirt that was pulled so tightly across the other man's chest and the veins in his forearms and thighs that were jumping with anticipation. After everything he'd been through he'd made a promise to himself, to not deny himself the good things in life. Derek was one of those good things. He wanted Derek. He needed Derek.

"Stay here. With me." Each of his carefully-pronounced words was filled with sex.

Stiles watched Derek squirm a little, his jaw clenched so hard it was creaking and his fingers forming fists, the man's eyes flickering between Stiles' and Stiles' body. Derek didn't want to give in. He was too proud. But the provocation was so great. With a deep breath, a fire lit itself in Derek's eyes. This was a game, now, and Derek was hell-bent on winning.

"No." He forced himself to catch Stiles' eyes. He cocked an eyebrow, a smirk playing across softened lips.

"We can cuddle, and..." His gaze flitted off to the side. He blushed.

Though Stiles could try to act like a sex fiend, he was still a virgin, shy on the delicate topic. Derek grinned and he stepped closer to the boy, posture turned predatory and dangerous. He was a wolf and Stiles was his prey. The boy gulped as he approached, holding his eyes so possessively he couldn't help but squirm with nerves and excitement.

"You know, Stiles," Derek reached the bed, crawled towards him. "I'm a wolf. An animal. My senses are heightened incredibly."

Stiles shrugged, tongue flicking nervously over dewy lips. "Y-yeah, I know. Good f-fashion sense and all that." He swallowed loudly, eyes darting from Derek's heaving chest to those infinite eyes to the full, wet lips that were smirking at him. 

Derek swung low, hovering over Stiles' naked body so that he could feel the overwhelming heat radiating off his skin. "And you know what I can smell, Stiles?" He cocked his head. Stiles shook his quickly, lips loose and breathing short and fast because he was pretty sure he'd never been so turned on in his entire life. Derek leaned in, so close he could almost taste the salty sheen of sweat on the boy's upper lip. His lips brushed his jawbone and teeth found an earlobe. "Arousal."

A deep, animalistic groan tore itself from Stiles' throat, his eyes hooded and lusty and dark. Any nerves he had concerning intimacy were gone. Needy hands reached for the man but Derek chose that moment to rock back on naked hips. The man grinned at him, obviously victorious. Stiles groaned again as the sudden lack of body heat left him feeling bare and cold.

"Derek," he huffed softly through a rough exhale. It was a plea, soaked with desperation.

"I want to go to the beach," the man insisted, pulling jeans over corded thighs and tented boxers and arching hipbones. 

Stiles, sighing, let his head loll to the side, his eyes never leaving the man's. "I'm tired," he protested, pouting shiny lips.

Derek swatted at his bare feet. "You just said you couldn't sleep, asshole." Stiles scrunched his nose at Derek, trying futilely to catch his lithe waist between his calves. Derek grabbed them easily, pulling Stiles forward to the edge of the bed.

"Eager, aren't we?" the boy smirked as the sheet - the only thing covering him - slipped even further, leaving one hipbone and a dangerous amount of skin exposed.

"Prude, aren't we?" the man retorted as the boy started to pull the sheet back up, his modest nature taking over.

Stiles froze. And keeping his eyes on Derek's, he ever so slowly got up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing. The sheet fell uselessly away. Derek's eyes struggled to keep hold of Stiles'. The man swallowed. He showed weakness. Fingers at his side trembled, so incredibly eager for the feel of the boy's smooth, firm flesh against his own. Derek tilted his chin up, trying so hard to keep his aura of pride and authority. But he'd lost. His eyes broke off from Stiles', flickering everywhere, trying to take in his whole beautiful body at once. His tongue wouldn't stay still. It swept across his lips until they were sore and a deep pink blush spread over his cheeks.

"It was your idea to get naked." Stiles offered after a solid minute of laboured silence.

Derek's lips smacked, struggling to find words in the thick air. "I just... wanted to cuddle." he amended, eyes meeting the boy's once more.

Stiles smirked, cocking an eyebrow. His expression was lusty and his lips were loose and his eyes hooded and deep, deep brown. He stepped towards the man. Just one step. But it was enough. Derek gravitated towards him, almost floating across the old carpet that was decorated with patterns painted by the moon. Derek had no idea how the kid could switch so seamlessly from shy virgin to sex fiend in milliseconds, but he didn't really care.

"Beach?" Stiles asked, "Or bed?"

But Derek didn't hear him. Not really. He was too preoccupied with the way the moonlight caught his lips; sparkling, almost, with saliva, and the way that same moonlight ignored his eyes, leaving them dark, deep sockets. It was a look both enticing and frightening, for Derek. For the first time in a long time, Stiles looked powerful. He looked strong. And he looked hot as hell.

"Bed," Derek commanded, his chest reaching Stiles' in a single stride.

Hands found bare skin, reveled as they traced a collarbone before shoving him back towards the mattress. Derek caught the slightest hint of a smile curving his lips before he fell back, naked and splayed deliciously beneath him. Derek crawled atop him, their skin pressing together from forehead to toes. Arms, stronger and safer than ever, curled around Stiles' waist, pressing a set of sharp hipbones almost painfully into his own. But they didn't feel the pain. They were intoxicated with their breath and the heat and the friction - Goddamn, the friction. A primal groan tore itself from Stiles' throat, his fingers gripping desperately at the man's back, raking along his spine until they landed comfortably on his bum, pressing him harder against himself in the most intimate of ways. Derek's lips found a sweet spot on the delicate skin of the boy's neck and his eyes rolled back in his skull, mouth loose and open, panting and sighing and making the most undignified of sounds. But Derek either didn't care or didn't notice. Every sound Stiles made sent delicious vibrations straight to his crotch. Every moan and hum and groan was like honey, thick and sweet and soft. They were both lost in ecstasy.

Until Derek sat up. The sound Stiles made was almost a whimper; needy and protesting and wrecked. The man grinned, pressing both palms into the boy's chest. He leaned over the boy once more and his breath hitched. Stiles palmed desperately at the man's chest. 

"I changed my mind." Derek rumbled. "I want to go to the beach."


	3. Penance

"I liked trees."

The man turned to face the boy in the passenger seat. He was staring out the window at the passing woods. His skin was milky in the moonlight. His eyes were hollowed and dark.

"And now?" The man asked softly. Reluctantly and in silence, his gaze returned to the yellow stripe running down the middle of the road.

"I don't."

"Why?"

The boy breathed deeply - shakily. Hands fidgeted in his lap. He looked away from the forest lining the road and into his palms. "When I see trees I see him."

Derek nodded, readjusting his grip on the wheel. He didn't ask the boy to explain any further. He knew he was still hurting even now, months later. It would be a long time before he forgot, if ever. Stiles knew this. He knew he was broken. He twiddled his fingers more, mesmerizing himself with his nimble joints and his palms which didn't seem as vast and strong as they once did. No more did he look at his hands and see tools for touching and soothing and helping and healing. He looked at his hands and saw that they were covered in blood and pain and were turned into weapons.

"Are you sad?" Derek asked.

The boy's mouth quirked. He stuffed his bloodied hands between his thighs and his gaze trained sightlessly over the dash. "No." He was quiet for a few minutes. The man waited. "I'm empty..." Seconds later he seemed to regret his statement. "I'm full."

Derek huffed a soft laugh, head cocking to the side. "Okay, Stiles. Whatever you say."

"No, I-" He stopped, grinning gently at himself. With a deep breath he reiterated. "I have this huge weight filling my chest. It presses on me and makes it hard to breathe... It makes everything feel pointless. Empty."

"Okay."

He nodded, as if agreeing with himself. It did make everything seem pointless. The weight made it hard to smile and laugh and love. Though he didn't actually know what the weight was, he could guess. Maybe it was depression. Inevitable death. Guilt. There were plenty of possibilities. None were for certain.

The car was quiet as they approached a secluded stretch of beach.

"I used to be good at art." Derek said as the car rounded the last corner. It pulled to a halt in a tiny parking lot above the sand. 

They stared at the crashing water, silent. Still.

"I was smart." Stiles supported.

"I was good at football."

"I was funny."

Inside the car was peaceful. Neither said a word.

Derek turned the car off and sat, facing the waves, his seat belt done up and his keys in hand. He felt too heavy to move. Stiles sniffed, releasing the air in a shaky breath, and cleared his throat.

"I guess in the end we were too weak to uphold our potential." The boy offered, covertly rubbing tears from his cheeks. "Everything we could have been... Now look at us." He laughed quietly; a dark, mocking sound, unnatural when coming from his soft, pink lips.

"Hey," Derek hushed, taking his hand and undoing the seat belt. "At least we've found each other." He tried.

"I'm broken." the boy reminded him. New tears stung his eyes. He looked away from the man, embarrassed.

The man nodded, averting his gaze towards the ocean. He rubbed soothing circles into the back of the boy's hand. "I'm here."

oOo

The man had somehow managed to convince the boy to strip naked for the second time that night. 

Derek had taken his hand and was leading him into the water. Sand curled around his toes. The wind was needy and clung to them as they waded through it, its tendrils pulling at them, and Stiles reveled in the feeling of being wanted even by something as common and worthless as the air. He breathed deeply, closing his eyes, and allowed the man to guide him through the cold water up to his ankles, then his knees, then his hips, then his ribs. They stopped when it licked at his collarbone. He gazed towards the sand and the road and civilization and he felt very distanced from it all. It was a comforting feeling. He was on the outside of everything. He was out. 

"I'm glad you're here." He told Derek. 

The man grinned, his eyes training on the ripples they created, not meeting the boy's eyes. "I... I don't know what to say to that." he confessed, a smile poking dimples into his cheeks. It made Stiles grin. 

Derek felt elated and vulnerable and it was pleasant in a terrifying sort of way. He bent his head and covered his face with glistening fingers. He couldn't believe where they were, where Stiles was on his road to recovery. He had missed him. He had thought he'd lost him. Before he'd ever really even had him. But maybe... maybe Stiles would come back. Maybe he was coming back. Maybe this was him, healing, slowly but surely. Unable to find words in the salty night air, Derek met Stiles' searching eyes and put a palm to his cheek. He pulled the boy closer until their wet, naked bodies were flush against one another. 

"What are we doing here, Stiles?" the man murmured. 

The boy took his time to answer. "We're avoiding sleep." 

"No, not here at the beach. I mean here. You and me... together." His head gestured downwards to where their bodies were pressed so tightly together they were almost indiscernible from one another. Relationships were still foreign territory to Derek. Let alone a relationship with another man. He wasn't sure what he was more afraid of - putting a name to what they had or leaving it anonymous. 

Stiles shrugged, a rare smile gracing his face. "I think it was sort of inevitable, you and me. You... you saved me, Derek. You pulled me out of the dark." He pressed his words into the man's shoulder and neck and ear, cementing them to his skin with his lips. 

"Okay. I saved you. Now what?" The man's voice betrayed his casual words. It was rough and growling and struggled to stay even and low as the boy's teeth and tongue played along his collarbone. 

"Now I make up for my sins." Stiles rumbled. "I want to create enough pleasure to match the pain." 

Derek suddenly found the air stiflingly hot. The water soothed his burning skin but everything exposed was scorching. His hands traveled up boy's jaw and neck and carded through the short hair at the base of his neck. "Pleasure?" He growled, his breath coming in short, fast huffs. 

He nodded against the man's cheek. "Pleasure. Starting with you." 

The man's hands raked down his spine and Stiles pulled himself up on him, a tangle of legs on hips and hands on shoulders, pressing his lips to Derek's in a frenzy. One primal thought had taken over both of their minds - closer. Closer. They could never be close enough. The man loved the boy. The boy loved him back. Closer. 

When a moving, dark shape caught the corner of the man's eye, though, he froze. Stiles froze. He saw it then too. But as they stared they relaxed. It was not a threat. It was a graffiti artist, stealing through the dark towards the cement wall cupping the beach. A heavy bag was flung onto the sand. It was opened and the man in black started creating. 

Derek sunk lower in the water until waves lapped at his chin and lips and Stiles hugged closer to him. They felt invisible and it was wonderful. 

"We have to be quiet." He whispered on Derek's cheek. 

Derek nodded, pupils blown, mouth slack and red. 

"You can't make a sound." Stiles continued, voice rough, pressing into the man's hair. 

Pressing into the man's back and bum and thighs. Caressing and touching and feeling the man's skin in a way Stiles hadn't for too long a time. His fingers found a stiff nipple, only a inch below the surface of the surging water, and rolled it between a finger and a thumb. His lips found a sweet spot at the base of the man's neck and he groaned. The fingers left his nipple in a second. 

"Shhh..." He breathed. "Quiet, wolf."

"Stiles," the man growled, breath labored. Stiles tweaked the other nipple. The man bit his lip, stifling a moan. "You're making this sort of hard."

The boy didn't respond. He grinned a funny little grin and licked a hot stripe across the base of his neck. Derek swore he felt his skin burn at the touch. He was clay in the boy's hands, moving and shifting as he wished, completely at mercy to the damaged thing mouthing at his neck. A particularly strong wave coasted over Derek's lips and he pulled Stiles' head up by the hair to kiss him through the taste of the sea. Stiles' clever fingers once again found a nipple and he swallowed the man's moans as they shared hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses.

Suddenly, the world was red and blue. Their heads shot up towards the beach as a siren pierced the air. A cop car approached the secluded stretch of moonlit sand, making the graffiti artist drop everything and run. He left his bag. The officer moved to get out of his car before deciding that he was tired and that it was too late an hour for a chase. He turned the car around and left.

Once again, they were truly alone.

Actually, Derek was truly alone. Completely and utterly alone.

As he watched the cop car recede behind a row of trees he realized how tight Stiles' grip had become. He started to protest, twisting and palming at the arms and chest before his eyes trained to meet Stiles'. They were wide. Empty. Unseeing. His lips were parted and an unmistakable expression of fear had twisted his features.

The sudden pulsing lights had sent his delicate mind into a state of shock.

"Stiles?" Derek murmured. The boy didn't respond. "Stiles!?" His voice rose, an unfortunate panic filling his tone.

He repeated the name over and over again, frantic, pushing and gripping at his chest and shoulders and cheeks.

"Stiles!"

oOo

"Stiles," A voice cooed.

The boy blinked. He tried to scream, but his throat was tight and sore and closed. He choked, trying to cough. He struggled desperately to get away from the thing whispering his name an inch from his face. It had a putrid black tongue in an oily, toothless maw and its face was wrapped in ragged white. It taunted him with his name and the boy flinched with every syllable. When his feet finally hit the right angle on the dirt floor he used the new-found leverage to push himself away from the beast. He got a few inches before the pain in his throat doubled. He stopped, gagging and dry-heaving. Through the dim light he realized he was tied to the foul creature - the bandages cocooning it had started to cocoon him too, starting at his throat.

"NO!" He protested, voice rasping and dry. His mind went into a fierce and immediate panic. Not again not again not again not again. This couldn't happen. Not again.

He clawed desperately at the strips of white gauze, flailing and kicking and screaming and fighting like he had never had the chance to when it overtook his mind.

But it was futile.

The bandages were like snakes, smooth and slow, but steadily crawling over his neck, then his jaw, then his chin. Stiles yelled one last piercing yell, echoing ripped and bloody from a collapsing windpipe. The champion bandages continued, slowly and tightly over his ears and nose. He pulled in one last breath then stopped.

He stopped.

He gave up.

The boy lay there, limbs loose and beaten, eyeing the creature sitting contentedly across from him, smiling and humming as he died. He held the breath and all sound faded but the beating of his own heart and then that faded too and then everything was no more.

oOo

The man was now only feet from the beach. He readjusted his grip on a shoulder and an arm and tugged with one last inhuman effort. They both fell in the shallows of the ocean. Derek sucked in a fortifying breath and pulled himself up before letting his weight down onto the boy's thighs, supporting himself on his arms on either side of the boy's head. He slapped at his cheeks and pushed on his chest and pressed against his throat, hoping the panic of restricting air would force his mind back into reality. He was breathing yes, though shallowly, and Derek prayed that those few seconds he had lost his grip and the boy had sunk so peacefully to the sand at bottom of the ocean had not done too much damage.

Then he was biting his fist, not caring the wounds his fangs left, the blood that dripped onto Stiles' chest. The man pawed forsakenly at the boy's arms and shoulders, pleas and promises and prayers whispered in a broken voice dusting his neck, asking, telling, demanding he wake up.

Those seconds stretched to minutes and were painful and quiet, the water lapping soothing and gentle at their sides.

He lowered himself flush onto the boy's stomach, quieted, rising and falling with his breath, studied the boy's eyelashes and jawbone and the moles on his cheek. He touched the boy's arms and ribs for the sake of touching, for the comfort of his soft, salty skin and the faint warmth he offered.

Derek's eyelids fluttered. He closed them, focusing his entirety on willing Stiles awake, willing his mind not to be lost. Not now. Not again.

Minutes later, that seemed like eons, Stiles opened his eyes. The boy blinked a few times, exhausted for some reason. He didn't say a word. He was comforted by the man's weight and focused on matching their breaths. After a few seconds he couldn't help himself. He laced their fingers together.

Derek opened his eyes. He blinked a few times, exhausted for some reason. He didn't say a word. He pulled his taken hand up to his mouth and kissed pale knuckles. He kissed rosy cheeks and an upturned nose and soft lips.

"Can I make you mine if I let myself be yours?" His voice was quiet and velvet. It pulled at the boy like waves, drawing him in.

Stiles nodded sleepily.

The man staggered to his feet, wiggling his wet toes in the sand and walked over to the abandoned bag of paints. He peered inside. The old black duffel held tubes of paint and brushes and medium and spray paint. He pulled out an old tube of navy blue and returned to the boy.

"Promise me you'll remember that you're mine."

The boy nodded again, still bathing in two inches of the warmest shallow water, reveling in its tiny, salty tongues lapping at legs and sides and splayed arms. He was spread out beautifully again, lean and pale like the crescent of a moon lording over them.

Derek squeezed some paint onto his fingers and dabbed it over the tips of them before kneeling beside his lover.

So gently, he brushed wet hair away and pressed a finger to the boy's forehead. The paint bled out from his finger, staining pale skin. He pulled the line down over nose and lips and chin and neck, continuing until he had split the boy perfectly in half. Stiles blinked at him, features soft and breathing slow. Derek squeezed more paint out and covered his palms. He pressed a pigmented hand into the right side of Stiles' chest, the paint mingling with the water droplets and running off tainted.

"This half can be yours," he murmured. The man pressed his other palm into the left side, over a beating heart. "But this half is mine."

The boy only nodded again, because he knew this already. He belonged to Derek; to the man standing over him, fangs uncontrollably glinting in the moonlight, claws fighting to be seen. But he wasn't scared. How could he be? He loved him. His eyes followed the man's every movement, finding beauty in every hair caught by the wind and every grain of sand decorating dark, wet legs.

Derek continued to paint, the boy's body his canvas, until the stars were reflected in his skin and fingers and claws had pulled lines over hills and valleys of ribs and thighs and hand prints cuffed ankles and wrists and painted kisses were to be found everywhere.

When he had finished he sat back, staring at his masterpiece. The boy looked like a soldier in war paint. And how true that was. The soldier had come back alive. Wounded. Broken. But alive. Derek liked how his hands cupped Stiles' heart and how his fingers cupped Stiles' face. He liked how Stiles looked completely his. Stiles was his. And he was Stiles'.

The man lay down beside the boy and they stared at the stars and were teased by the tide as it faded with the night. They breathed in harmony and their fingers found each other, tangling desperately together like rose vines, clinging to each other for safety and life and love.

Dawn soon came.


End file.
